The Mind That Moves At 100 Miles Per Hour
by SaraMarie25
Summary: After a chase that culminates in Sherlock nearly being strangled to death, John finds out that the seemingly fearless man does indeed have a phobia.


**Title: **The Mind That Moves At 100 Miles Per Hour

**Fandom: **BBC TV Series Sherlock

**Characters: **Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade

**Table: **Table 4

**Prompt: **001 - Phobia

**Word Count: **4,613

**Rating: **Explicit, NC-17, 18+

**Warnings: **Slash, Mild violence

**Summary: **After a chase that culminates in Sherlock nearly being strangled to death, John finds out that the seemingly fearless man does have a fear.

**Author's Notes: **Simply smutty porn. Enjoy.

John sighed and stretched his aching limbs. It was absolutely freezing in the alleyway between the shop and the restaurant and he was far too old to be hanging around in the small hours of the morning in the middle of winter. The alleyway was cramped and a tight squeeze what with all the bins, boxes and general rubbish.

And it smelled _really_ bad.

He looked to the end of the alleyway where Sherlock was peering around the corner, his gaze fixed on the end of the road. He hadn't moved for the last hour and John was starting to think he was frozen to the wall. It wouldn't surprise him, it was _bloody_ cold!

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it. It was nearly three in the morning.

"Stop it John"

John jumped. It was the first thing Sherlock had said for hours.

"Stop what? I haven't moved or spoken since midnight!"

"You were about to ask just how much longer we were going to be here. Listening to you trying to put your questions into words that don't convey how bored you are, so as to spare my feelings, is distracting me. And it's dull. To answer it, we are here until I see what I am looking for, which, if I have got this correct, should be within the next hour"

"If you knew when you would see, whatever it is you want to see, why did we have to be here at midnight freezing our socks off!" asked John.

"I was bored"

"Great…Excellent…Really excellent…so on a freezing cold night, even though you knew exactly when the tailor would leave his shop, you decided to…what? Perform some sort of experiment? See how long it takes for someone to die of boredom? Whether it's possible to freeze living human tissue, maybe?"

"You forget who I grew up with John. After living in the same house as Mycroft I know that it isn't possible to die of boredom…believe me, I've tried"

Sherlock smirked and threw a glance back at John. The doctor's hands were thrust deeply into his pockets and he looked angry, cold and thoroughly miserable.

"Even I can be wrong sometimes John. I wanted to be certain" he said, fighting to keep a straight face.

"You don't believe even for one second that you could ever be wrong" replied John, laughing in spite of himself.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to the rest of the human race" said John, still chuckling slightly.

"But seriously Sherlock, do you really need me here? I have the early surgery in the morning"

For a moment they looked straight into each other's eyes, the atmosphere almost palpable between them. John's smile faded slightly as he searched Sherlock's face for a reason for the sudden tension, but Sherlock's face was clamped up tight.

John was going to press for an answer, going to make Sherlock tell him that he needed him, when the detective raised a black gloved hand and waved John towards him, his whole body stiffening in much the same way a hounds does when it catches the scent of a fox.

John crept towards him and peered around the wall of the alleyway, stumbling slightly on his numb feet. Sherlock grabbed hold of his arm to steady him. The man they were hunting had just emerged from his shop and was locking the door.

Silently, Sherlock flitted out of the alleyway, keeping to the shadows as he edged close to the buildings, his Belstaff making him look like an overgrown bat.

John tried to follow, nowhere near as graceful as the detective. He slipped around the corner and fell straight over a metal dustbin. The resulting crash was loud enough to awaken the dead and John groaned to himself. The tailor they were meant to be following jumped and looked around, looking right at him.

"Get up John!" Cried Sherlock, as the tailor turned tail and shot off down an alleyway with Sherlock hot on his heels. John rolled his eyes and picked himself up. Here he was, running after Sherlock again, trying to make sure his brazen flatmate didn't get himself killed.

He thundered down the alleyway Sherlock had disappeared into, momentarily losing sight of the detective. He twisted and turned down the concrete channel, following the thundering footsteps of the two men ahead of him, breathing hard against a stitch in his side.

"Sherlock!" he panted, as the footsteps ahead of him faded slightly. He heard a thud and a muffled cry and as he rounded the corner he saw Sherlock throw himself at the tailor and catch him around the middle. Both men went over with a thud and John flinched as Sherlock's curly head struck the wall with a sickening crunch.

Sherlock dropped his guard for a minute as he fought to stop from blacking out, his head ringing with the blow. Fingers closed around his throat and squeezed, choking him mercilessly. He kicked out feebly but was still far too dazed to throw the man off of him.

John saw, as if in slow motion, the hands around his friends' swanlike throat, watched as the fingers tightened. He didn't need to think twice. He didn't even need to think once. His hand plunged into his pocket and grasped the smooth, comforting metal grip of the Browning Hi-powered 9mm pistol, withdrawing it in one fluid motion and pointing it, with an unshaking hand, at the head of the tailor.

"You've got one chance to let him go" he growled. He felt the familiar old thrill that the smooth metal of a gun always used to give him in Afghanistan.

The tailor looked at him for a second, fear and shock clouding his eyes. John felt the chill of mercilessness run down his spine as the tailor didn't release his grip on Sherlock's throat and the detective's Cupid's bow lips started to turn blue.

"Too slow" whispered John, thumbing back the hammer of the pistol and squeezing the trigger. The shot echoed around the narrow alleyway like thunder. John's shot went straight to the target and the tailor collapsed onto Sherlock, eyes glassy and staring. He was dead.

"Sherlock!"

John ran forward and shoved the body off his friend, helping the gasping detective to sit upright. He was holding his throat and gasping.

"I appreciate that John" he wheezed, looking at his friend.

"That's the second time you've killed to save my life"

"Lestrade is going to kill me this time, though" said John, looking down at the body of the tailor and the pistol next to him, which John had dropped in his haste to make sure Sherlock was ok.

"Don't worry about that. I've just solved his case" said Sherlock, as blue flashing lights appeared at the end of the alleyway. John helped him to his feet and Sherlock straightened his coat, withdrawing the blue scarf from his pocket and wrapping it around his neck, on which bruises were starting to bloom from where the tailors fingers had squeezed.

"How did I know that a shots fired call would lead me to you two" sounded a disapproving voice from the end of the alleyway.

"Relax George…"

"Greg…"

"…I have just solved your case. The one thing all the victims had in common was that they all used the same bespoke tailor, the one you now see lying before you. He chose his victims seemingly at random however every single one of them was found dead in the suit he was supposed to get married in. I would guess that he was jilted at the altar some years ago and since then has been killing young bridegrooms in their first flushes of happiness, that is before doubt and regret can take over, and lacing the collars of their suits with the poison that you found in the victims systems. It soaked through the skin in their sweat, causing them to die several hours after getting their suit, thus making it near impossible to find a suspect and allowing our friend here…"

He indicated the corpse behind him.

"…to get himself an excellent alibi for each murder" concluded the detective. John looked at him in admiration. Even after nearly choking to death, Sherlock could still remain composed enough to make Lestrade feel about three inches tall.

Sherlock brushed past the DI and John followed, stopping next to Lestrade, looking pointedly at his pistol and murmuring.

"I'll drop by and pick up my piece in the morning shall I?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes as John carried on after Sherlock.

"That was brilliant! Amazing!" he said, as he emerged from the alleyway behind the detective. There was already an ambulance on scene.

"Thank you John. As much as your amazement bewilders me because I only observe what is already available to see, I am flattered by it…_if that blanket so much as touches my shoulders you will regret it!" _finished the detective, with a menacing hiss. The paramedic that had been approaching them, blankets in hand, stopped dead and looked at John, who couldn't help laughing to himself as he ducked under the police tape after Sherlock.

The exhausted pair climbed the steps of 221B slowly. John's shoulder was stiff and aching with the cold and the exertion of running and the force of the kickback from his pistol when he had fired. He rotated it slowly, pressing the scar in the way his physiotherapist had told him to do and he flinched. It didn't work.

"Tea?" enquired Sherlock casually. It never ceased to amaze John that things like late night stakeouts, gruesome murders and his flatmate shooting assailants dead right on top of him never fazed Sherlock for more than a few minutes.

"Yes please"

John flopped down in his favourite chair and sighed, trying to relax his aching limbs. His shoulder twinged and he caught his breath sharply.

"You should have a hot bath" said Sherlock, handing John a mug with shaking hands. Shaking? Sherlock never shook.

"Yeah I will in a minute. Are you ok?" Asked John.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I be?" Answered Sherlock quickly, a little too quickly in John's opinion.

"Well, you know, the whole nearly choking to death thing"

"I'm fine" reiterated the detective, not looking at John. John didn't believe him for one second but he knew better than to force the issue. He drained the last of his tea and stood up, grunting as his shoulder twinged again.

"I'm going to try that bath" he said. Sherlock didn't respond. He merely crossed his legs on the sofa and steepled his hands under his chin, closing his eyes. John rolled his eyes and entered the bathroom.

He ran the hot tap on the faucet and soon the little room was filled with steam. John sighed as he sank into the hot water, feeling the muscles in his shoulder relaxing slightly. Half delirious with the hot water and steam he allowed his mind to wander back to the evenings events. Mainly focusing on Sherlock's indifference, and his shaking hands. Maybe he had been scared and didn't want to show it? Or maybe it was just the cold?

John lay in the bath for a good hour, topping up the hot water when the bath started to go cold. Finally, he heaved himself out of the bath, his shoulder still aching dully. He wrapped a towel around his waist and exited the bathroom. He wasn't in the habit of walking around half naked, people already talked a little too much about his and Sherlock's 'relationship', but he had fully expected Sherlock to be in bed by now. Especially after solving a case. So it was a surprise to him to see his flatmate still on the sofa when he entered the sitting room.

Sherlock's knees were drawn up to his chest and his head was resting forwards on them as his arms hugged his legs. He didn't move when he heard John's footsteps and for one fleeting moment John thought he had fallen asleep in that position. Then he noticed how tense Sherlock's body was, every muscle tight and vice-like under his shirt.

"Sherlock? Are you ok? Answer me honestly this time" said John, ignoring the fact that he was still half naked and sitting down next to his flatmate. This close, he could see that Sherlock's body was tense because he was fighting the urge to tremble.

Sherlock looked up at him. His eyes were wild.

"No John of course I'm not alright. I almost died tonight and I'm not ready for that" whispered the detective, sounding strangely vulnerable. He massaged his neck and John could see the tailor's finger-marks, which were now making angry reddish purple stripes across that beautiful alabaster throat. John felt a pang of sympathy.

"You got scared, didn't you Sherlock?" he asked, wanting nothing more than to take that curly head and hold it against his chest, comfortingly.

"I think I did John"

"I had no idea that you of all people would be scared of death" said John, placing his hand gently on Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's not death John!" cried Sherlock, jumping up and beginning to pace.

"It's the fact that my mind…_my _mind…will one day just stop. My mind that goes at 100 miles an hour, which travels at light speed, will just stop. All the deductions, the rationalisation, the thoughts and observations, just gone! That's terrifying! I can't ever imagine my mind not working!"

In a weird way, John understood what Sherlock meant. He reached out his hand and caught Sherlock's wrist, stopping his pacing. He could feel a racing pulse under his fingers as he pulled Sherlock towards him.

"Come and sit back down. Let me take a look at your neck" said John, soothingly. Sherlock flopped back down beside him, pulling at his own fingers. He tipped his head back and John placed a hand on the detectives chin and examined the graceful throat.

With his free hand, he ran expert fingers along the bruises on Sherlock's throat.

He ran his hands further up under Sherlock's jaw, inspecting the cuts the tailors fingernails had left there.

"Those will need cleaning" he mused. Sherlock's adams apple bobbed as he swallowed, then he nodded his assent. John rose from the sofa and retrieved his first aid kit from the bathroom. Sitting back down next to Sherlock, he grabbed a wad of gauze and a bottle of antiseptic. Pouring the antiseptic onto the gauze, he began to swipe gently at the cuts on Sherlock's neck. The detective jumped, and then shivered.

"Sorry…cold" murmured John, his eyes fixed on that beautiful throat, watching it quiver and the way it convulsed every time Sherlock swallowed. When he was satisfied, he moved to Sherlock's other side and started on the cuts on the other side of his neck. He felt Sherlock relax back against the couch with a small moan. The noise went straight to John's towel covered cock and he froze as it jumped with interest.

He dropped the gauze he was holding and leant forwards, burying his nose in the crook of Sherlock's neck and inhaling deeply, darting his tongue out and touching it against Sherlock's skin. The detective gave a start and his hand flew to the back of John's head.

"_John_…what are you…_John_…doing" he whispered, threading his hands through the doctors hair. John replied by latching onto Sherlock's collar bone and nipping and sucking gently on the thin skin that covered it, drawing another moan from the detective. The taste of antiseptic on his tongue was bitter but, mixed with the delightful taste that was Sherlock Holmes, John didn't care.

Without even thinking, John kissed his way up Sherlock's neck, worshipping the pale skin. Sherlock's hand tightened on the back of his head, dragging him upwards to his lips. Desperately their lips crushed together, John moaning in surprise as he felt Sherlock's tongue instantly against his lips. John parted his own lips and Sherlock's tongue flooded his mouth, probing every corner seemingly at once. John gasped and groaned, fighting a losing battle against Sherlock's tongue with his own. Sherlock's hands grabbed his face and pulled him in tighter. Giving up any of the inhibitions he still had remaining, John swung his leg over Sherlock's thighs and straddled him, pressing his body flush against the detectives.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's chest and pushed him back for a second. John looked at him, fearing that he may have gone too far, but Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow and brought his hands to the buttons on his own shirt…that _devastating_ purple shirt…

"I appear to be wearing more clothes than are required"

Sherlock's voice was as smooth and husky as dark silk and John shuddered as it sent electricity down every nerve and synapse in his body.

"Too slow" he growled, swatting Sherlock's hands away from the buttons and taking over the task, almost ripping the buttons off in his haste to get Sherlock naked. He yanked the shirt over the detectives shoulders and down his arms and vaguely threw it over his head, crushing his mouth to Sherlock's again, moaning in delight as his flushed skin finally pressed to Sherlock's naked chest.

Sherlock placed his hands on John's back and pulled him in tighter, the kiss becoming an erotic mess of teeth, tongues and lips. They broke apart, gasping for air, lips swollen. John looked at Sherlock, his head tipped back, panting hard.

"God you're fucking gorgeous!"

He put his lips to Sherlock's chest and kissed, licked and sucked his way to his nipple, smiling against the hardened bud as Sherlock moaned, before sucking it into his mouth and biting down. Sherlock gasped and his hips bucked, almost throwing John off. John pressed his hips down and began to grind against Sherlock's erection as he teased his way to Sherlock's other nipple, lavishing it with the same treatment.

Sherlock's hands were on John's waist, stroking everywhere, driving John crazy as they dipped beneath the edge of the loosely knotted towel and pulled. The towel came away and slid to the floor as John pressed himself harder into Sherlock.

The side of the detectives hand brushed against the head of John's cock as he fumbled with his own belt and John jumped violently at the teasing pressure. He ground himself into Sherlock's hand, wantonly desperate for some kind of friction.

"John…you aren't making this easy" gasped Sherlock, as he tried to undo his belt, button and fly while toying with John's cock, teasingly rubbing his finger against the slit which was now leaking pre-cum all over Sherlock's belly.

"Since when did you like things being easy?" breathed John, stilling his hips with great difficulty. Sherlock wriggled underneath him, sliding his trousers and pants to his ankles and kicking them off before grabbing John's shoulders and pulling him back down to straddle his lap. They both moaned as their throbbing cocks slid together.

"Oh FUCK!" shouted John. He reached his hand down and wrapped it around both of them, beginning to pump up and down as slowly as he could bear. This was Sherlock fucking Holmes! He wanted this to last.

Sherlock murmured John's name over and over again, rocking his hips up into John's touch, his head thrown back to rest on the back of the couch, his lips still swollen with kissing.

"Christ! Sherlock…fuck!"

John had never been this turned on by the mere sight of someone before. He felt like a horny teenager all over again watching Sherlock come undone before him. He didn't know when he had made the decision that he needed to fuck his flatmate, all he knew was that he had to fuck him…_right now!_

Hating to do it, he tore himself away from Sherlock's grasp.

"I'll be back in two seconds, don't move" he whispered against Sherlock's lips. He sprinted off up the stairs, taking two at a time. He tumbled back down just as gracelessly a few seconds later with a bottle of lube in his hand. Sherlock's cock twitched at the sight of it and the detective moaned, wrapping his hand around his own cock and beginning to pump furiously.

"Don't be so impatient" growled John, pulling Sherlock's thighs apart and sliding up between them. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist and pulled his hand away, pinning it down onto the sofa. He leant down and kissed up Sherlock's thigh, feeling the muscle tremble underneath the skin. He huffed a laugh as he looked up and met Sherlock's eyes and the detective's lids fluttered as John's hot breath blew over his aching erection, anticipation written in his translucently coloured eyes, pupils blown wide with lust.

"John…please…"

Fuck! Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes, was begging him, John Watson, for relief. He never thought he'd see the day. Without any warning, John opened his mouth and swallowed Sherlock to the root. Sherlock shouted as his cock was engulfed in tight, wet heat and bucked his hips upwards. His cock hit the back of John's throat and the doctor didn't even gag. He'd done this before. The thought made Sherlock feel strangely hot with jealousy.

Sherlock thrust up again, John not resisting at all as the detective fucked his mouth roughly, delighting in the deep growls and moans that the man was making. He closed his eyes and lashed his tongue against every part of Sherlock's shaft that he could reach. Sherlock began to tremble beneath him and John knew that he was close. He opened his eyes and looked up at the detective, wanting to see every expression that crossed his face as Sherlock thrust up one last time and froze with a shout as he came hard down John's throat.

"Fuck! John, fuck!" breathed Sherlock, going limp against the back of the sofa. John released Sherlock from his mouth and grinned up at the debauched detective, looking thoroughly pleased with himself.

"You taste amazing" he whispered, nuzzling against Sherlock's thigh and tasting the sweat that had broken out all over Sherlock's body. Sherlock mumbled something incomprehensible in reply and John laughed, his lust filled voice making the sound sultry and deep. He felt Sherlock shiver and his cock twitched again.

Reaching behind him, he picked up the bottle of lube and flipped the cap open with a soft click. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked towards the sound, a deliciously dirty smile spreading across his lips when he realised what it was. He licked his lips and them scooted himself down so that his feet were firmly planted on the floor and his ass was hanging over the edge of the sofa, opening himself up for John. The doctor groaned at the sight and slicked up his fingers.

Carefully, he traced the crack of Sherlock's ass, rubbing his finger between them and seeking out the small, puckered opening into Sherlock's body. He pressed the pad of his finger against it and circled gently, making Sherlock buck his hips upwards and begin to grind back down onto the finger, his cock once again impossibly hard.

"John…please!" begged Sherlock. Slowly, teasingly, John eased his finger into Sherlock's hole, wiggling it slightly and feeling the tight ring of muscle begin to give. Sherlock panted and writhed above him, grinding down onto John's finger.

"More…" gasped Sherlock, spreading his legs even wider. John slid a second finger in alongside the first and scissored them, stretching Sherlock with a delicious burning sensation that made the detective moan incoherently and begin to wiggle about. John held Sherlock's hips still with his free hand and began to thrust his fingers in and out, angling them up and hitting Sherlock's prostate dead on. Sherlock howled and nearly hit the roof, chanting John's name and canting his hips forwards in time with the movement of John's fingers. The sight of Sherlock like this was filthy and erotic and John felt his last ounce of self-control slipping away.

He pulled his fingers out (Sherlock whined in protest) and stood up. He pulled roughly on Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him forward and twisting him around so he was kneeling facing the back of the sofa. Sherlock leant against the back of the sofa and pressed his face against the cool wall behind it, sticking his ass out and moaning as John ran his hands over it.

Quickly, John slicked up his cock, moaning and biting his lip at the sensation of his hand slipping over his neglected erection. He took a deep breath and stepped up behind Sherlock, rubbing the head of his cock against Sherlock's hole. He nudged Sherlock's ass forward slightly so that he could put his knees on the sofa and slowly pressed forward into the tight heat, a choking moan escaping his throat as the muscles sucked him in until he was fully seated. He gave Sherlock a minute to become accustomed to the feeling of John inside him. Sherlock rocked backwards, stretching a hand back to grab at John's hip.

John pulled almost all the way out, and then snapped his hips back in again, setting a slow but brutally hard pace, slamming himself back into Sherlock over and over again punishingly, loving the sound of his hips slapping against the detectives backside and the sounds that were now streaming from Sherlock's mouth. Mrs Hudson would surely hear him, but right now, John didn't care.

"Fuck yes! Sherlock! So fucking tight…so hot"

He knew he wouldn't last long, not after having been so achingly hard for so long without being touched. He increased his pace, pounding vigorously into Sherlock. He felt his orgasm building in his groin and he moaned Sherlock's name, bending forward and sucking the skin of the detectives shoulder into his mouth as he snaked a hand around Sherlock's waist and grabbed at his cock, fisting it harshly in time with his thrusts.

"Jesus Christ! John! I'm going to…yes! Yes…"

Sherlock almost screamed as John felt Sherlock's erection throb in his hand and then the warm wetness as he spilled himself all over John's hand and the back of the sofa, clenching tightly around John's cock as he came. He flopped forward as far as he could against the sofa and John went with him, thrusting erratically as he neared his own orgasm.

"Fucking hell Sherlock…so close…so damn close…"

"Come on John…come inside me…that's what you want isn't it…"

The velvety, ravaged voice of Sherlock Holmes coaxing him to orgasm was enough to send John flying over the edge, the world turning white and the very blood in his veins on fire, calling Sherlock's name as he came hard, filling Sherlock with his cum before collapsing down against Sherlock's back, trembling.

"John, you have to move…I can't hold us both" groaned Sherlock, arching his back slightly. John slid away from Sherlock and allowed himself to fall sideways to lie down on the couch. He reached up and pulled Sherlock down on top of him, making sure the detectives head was on his chest so John could play lazily with the ebony curls on his head.

John's mind was sluggishly trying to piece together what had just happened. Was it a bad thing? Surely something that had felt that good wasn't bad? John couldn't read Sherlock when the doctor was compos mentis, let alone trying to read him in while he was in his current post-coital haze.

"Stop thinking John, It's far too tiring right now" said Sherlock, raising his head and pressing a chaste kiss to John's lips. John smiled.

"Your mind will never cease to work Sherlock. I'm sure of it"


End file.
